


Quiet

by rosegardeninwinter



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: (though subtle), F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Gaea & The Second Giant War (Percy Jackson), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: "They ditch the nightlight. The city outside his parents’ apartment is polluted with so much light they can’t see the stars, which is fine. Stars remind them of so many dead friends who loved the sky."Percy and Annabeth search for peace.





	Quiet

It’s ironic, given how hectic their lives are, and how much they just want some quiet, but California is too much of it. In the quiet he can start to imagine he can hear the Earth Mother again, whispering. 

They get through sophomore year with a combination of melatonin and a nightlight and decide they can’t keep doing this. 

It’s just shy of his twentieth birthday (and just short of one of them standing outside in the middle of New Rome and literally daring the gods to drop a harpy or a gorgon on them because they’re so bored and nervous and it’s going to happen anyway so might as well get it over with) when they move back to New York. 

They ditch the nightlight. The city outside his parents’ apartment is polluted with so much light they can’t see the stars, which is fine. Stars remind them of so many dead friends who loved the sky. And it’s easier here. Sleep. And other things. She touches his face in the purple neon through the shades and his eyes are gentle and his mouth is soft when it laughs against hers. "We have to be quiet," he warns her, and she’s so overwhelmed by the fact that it’s not a real warning, that the worst that could happen is that they wake somebody up and aren’t able to meet anyone’s eyes at breakfast tomorrow, that she starts to cry. "I know," he murmurs, breath feathering along the freckles that dot her sternum. A firetruck blares a block down and she heaves a shaky, relieved sigh because the noise drowns out any whispering but his. "I know."

She wakes with an ache in her lower back. Brushes her teeth. His stepdad makes coffee and remembers that she likes cream in hers. She pours generously from the carton of half and half, wishes her own father could be so considerate, and makes up a bowl of yogurt and granola and raspberries. She eats it on the fire escape and watches cars go by. One girl in an enormous city: anonymity. 

His baby sister loves blue as much as he does and he loves her so much it hurts - and it hurts a lot, because she’s one more person he can lose. 

Because it turns out that as long as there is ground under their feet there’s always the feeling it’s going to give way. Potholes in a parking lot. Spiders in the bathroom sink. They shouldn’t be as bad as they are, shouldn’t reduce his girlfriend to a shaking heap, shouldn’t make it hard for him to breathe, but -

Two hundred and sixteen hours. Nine days, Hesiod said. It felt like longer. Maybe they slept. Maybe they didn’t. He doesn’t remember. Or maybe he does, but he can’t think about it or he’ll start hyperventilating. He just remembers dark and heat and sweat and stink and her heartbeat pounding against his like a drum. And knowing that if it ever stopped, his would too. 

He buys her an expensive Tiffany necklace and it hangs awkwardly next to her camp beads. But it makes him hopeful, that sight: past and future brushing together against her collarbone. Like a promise. 

They take the train to the coast and climb down to the water. He dives in headfirst, bobs back up like a smug seal, and opens his arms to her. She jumps. 

They float in a pocket of air, breathing, listening to the rush of the waves overhead, watching fish dart to and fro. A riptide takes them out to sea but she isn’t frightened. A whale swims by, big as a bus, and she leans against the bubble edge like it's the glass of an aquarium and watches the whale’s tail out of sight into the distance. 

The skyline of the city is lit up when he steers them back to shore. The wind is high. She stretches out her arms and her lungs burn as she inhales, but her lungs burnt before. 

Four years. At some point they have to claim a victory. They buy gyros from a vendor and meander through the skyscrapers and the street performers and down to the trains. They stand at the back of the car, with one of his hands lightly holding the bar and the other splayed on her hip to steady her, Virginia girl, when the train lurches at every stop. They let themselves back into the apartment with his spare key and tumble into bed. 

He wakes up early (four or five) and runs a hot shower. And about five minutes later when she joins him, and complains about him taking up space, he decides that maybe this is the victory they have to learn to claim. Mundanity. She yawns “good morning” and plops her head against his shoulder. He grins, tells her he loves her, and reaches for the shampoo.


End file.
